


Stage One: Ignite

by StHoltzmann



Series: New Toys [2]
Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: "strictly scientific" relationship, Dubious Science, F/F, Fluff and Smut, For Science!, LGBTQ Female Character, Masturbation, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Remote Control, Sex Toys, Shameless Smut, Weird Machines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 05:20:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7878082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StHoltzmann/pseuds/StHoltzmann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Basically, I’m gonna just science the heck out of ya."</p><p>Holtzmann has called you in for your first session of volunteering as the test subject for her "technology-assisted human sexual gratification devices." You have no idea what to expect. Also, a very brief peek inside Holtzmann's minifridge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stage One: Ignite

**Author's Note:**

> The cardinal rule of sex scenes is, apparently, “don’t use correct anatomical terminology.” However, “you” are a scientist, and that’s exactly what “you’re” going to do. Holtzmann? Who knows. We’ll find out eventually. 
> 
> Please make sure you read the first story, [Human Subjects Research](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7836703), for the set-up. Thanks!

 

You met Holtzmann just a couple of days ago, and she’s still on your mind. When you got home that evening, you followed through on your plan to read the dullest and most deliberately abstruse papers that you could dig up. You had intense dreams and woke up aroused, but you couldn’t remember what you’d dreamed about. You got into the lab a little late that day.

Today you’re thinking about her while you sort through some data. It was funny that she had thought whoever showed up in response to her Craigslist ad wouldn’t recognize her. Cute, even.

The real question is: when is she going to text you to come back over? You’ve misplaced the charger for your favorite vibrator, and it only has maybe half an hour of battery life left. You eye the shelves at the back of the lab and hope you won’t have to swipe any of the junk back there to build a new one.

It’s National Postdoctoral Appreciation Week, which means that your schedule and everyone else’s is being interrupted with “celebrations.” This afternoon, it’s a reception; it’ll be pointless and awkward, and you’ll wonder why they couldn’t have spent the money on, say, $10 grocery gift cards for everyone. But it’s specifically a mentor-and-postdoc thing, so you have to put in an appearance. And there will be desserts… You keep an eye on the time and drag yourself out of the lab at the appointed hour.

You’ve been at the reception in the library for about half an hour, avoiding people and attempting to commune with the incongruent Buddha statues lining the walls, when your phone buzzes.

 _Doing anything important?_ It’s Holtzmann!

 _NOT AT ALL_ , you type, and then you erase it and replace it with a more chill _Nope. Need a volunteer?_

Holtzmann replies immediately: _The way into my parlour is up a winding stair, And I've a’many curious things to show when you are there_

Goodness. You give her an ETA—you’ve fulfilled your obligations here, more or less, and you can ghost out of the reception without anyone caring. Impulsively, you pop two of the apple tarts into the Tupperware you always bring to these things, and put it back in your bag in one stealthy move.

Transit is not your friend tonight. By the time you arrive at the warehouse, the sun is sinking out of sight and there’s a whisper of October in the late September air. You’re glad you had your blazer to throw on before showing up at the reception—it’s keeping you warm, plus you know it looks good on you. You knock on the door, but there’s no long wait this time. The door is flung open again, dramatically backlighting Holtzmann. “You’re here!”

You step inside and pull the heavy door closed behind you. Holtzmann is digging through the pockets of her long shop coat, which somehow manages to be both shapeless and ridiculously flattering. She pulls out an index card, flips up her safety glasses, and squints at it, then tosses it aside. It lands on one of the ubiquitous steel workbenches and you manage to read it: ASK NEW PEOPLE BEFORE HUGGING! - P

“Uhhhh…can I hug you?” Holtzmann asks, grinning at you.

“Um, sure?” (What e _lse_ are you going to say?!)

She hugs you immediately, straight on, surprisingly strong arms giving you a good squeezing. That is pretty nice, but you are thoroughly distracted by the feel of her breasts pressing against yours. You make an inadvertent coughing noise and she lets you go. “I thought that faced with _THE ACTUAL EVENT!!!,_ you’d changed your mind and weren’t going to show up.”

“Oh, no. I would have let you know. I wouldn't do that to – to a researcher,” you tell her. Then you sternly tell yourself: Get a grip, woman! It's fine to discreetly enjoy being around her, but you don't need to lose your mind like a 12-year-old at their first concert!

You change the subject. “I brought apple tarts for sharing,” you say, fishing them out of your bag.“Though they're better warm.”

“Put ‘em in the mini fridge,” she says, gesturing toward the back. “We can warm them up later.”

“You wore comfy undies, right?” she calls to you as you stash the tarts away in a tiny fridge (which could use a good deep clean—not to mention some more actual food. Who keeps microwave popcorn in a fridge anyway?). “I did tell you to, right?”

“No, but it’s okay,” you say as you return to her. “That's the only kind I have.” You’re distracted for a moment by wondering what kind of underwear is beneath Holtzmann’s tweed trousers. You would bet she’s a boxers girl.

“ _Excellent_ policy,” she says. “Welllllll, shall we?”

“Into your parlor?”

She winks, and you find yourself going up the stairs behind her as though drawn by a magnet.

You find yourself in a good-sized room set back in the loft. It looks a bit sterile, which you suppose is probably a good thing in this case. Holtzmann becomes very animated and bounces around the room, showing you things in a charming mix of squee and technical jargon. You don’t want to give yourself away by showing that you understand a lot of what she’s talking about…but on the other hand, you get the impression she talks that way to everyone and won’t notice if you do or don’t look confused.

“For the first test run I’ve cooked up something simple,” she says, patting something that looks like a three-way cross among a plush twin bed, a deluxe massage recliner, and a dental chair. In what seems to be one breath, she explains: “Now that other people are actually using my junk, I’ve been doing a li’l biomedical research. So you’ve got your sensory array up here. Is it wireless? _Of course_ it is. Here’s a good old-fashioned laser-guided infrared thermometer, picking up your blackbody radiation, and there’s all the other doohickeys and thingamajigs, telling us all about YOU! And the ‘bed’ here? Not _just_ the gel-infused viscoelastic foam of your dreams: it’s ergonomically correct _and_ it’s taking in all your biodata! Basically, I’m gonna just science the heck out of ya.”

“…Wow.”

“Yup! Anyway, toilet, shower, in there.” She gestures to a cubicle that appears to be made of plastic window siding, door and all. “Down to your skivvies, s’il vous plait.”

You take a deep breath and do as requested, then step out and fold your clothes on top of of your bag. The wooden floor of the loft feels cold under your feet.

Holtzmann is humming something and fiddling with one of the sensors. She turns around as you step out. “You clean up pretty goo—uhhh.” Awkward pause. She makes a dramatic sweeping gesture toward the bed. “Hop on!”

“Right.” You gingerly sit on the bed. There’s a quiet moment while Holtzmann adjusts the upper part of the bed so that it’s at a comfortable-looking angle. You feel a draft across your skin, and goosebumps spring up on your exposed skin. Before you can stop yourself, you say “This is safe, right?”

Holtzmann looks up at you through her yellow lenses. “Nothing in this lab is straight-up ‘safe,’” she says, sounding vaguely offended. “But it’s not _dangerous_.”

You just … don’t ask. “Sorry. I think I’ve got the jitters.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be in the control room listening and keeping an eye on the readouts.”

“You’re not going to be watching?” You’re faintly disappointed.

“I’ll switch on the camera if I need to, or y’know, just come out here. That’d take 3.7 seconds, which isn’t even long enough to—Anyway, remember, you can back out any time.”

“Thanks,” you manage to say.

Holtzmann bounces to her feet and pulls a pair of motorcycle goggles out of one of the larger pockets on her jacket. Unlike the pair you saw hanging on the pegboard downstairs, these have blacked-out lenses. “We’re starting off easy. But these will let you focus on what you’re feeling more. Apparently most people find this kind of setting…unsexy?” She shrugs.

You nod, and Holtzmann leans into you, placing the goggles lightly on your face and gently pulling the strap until it’s firm on your head. The soft padding puts a little pressure on your face, and you can’t see anything at all. On the questionnaire, you’d said that you were okay with not being able to see, but it feels pretty intense at the moment.

Holtzmann runs her fingers around the edges of the goggles and you suppress a shiver. “Comfy?”

“Uhhh—uh-huh.”

“Okeydoke.” She taps your legs and you lift them up. She pushes you until you’ve swiveled around, and then applies gentle pressure to your shoulder so that you lie back. There’s a support that fits just perfectly under your neck; you feel simultaneously incredibly relaxed and totally tense.

Holtzmann’s warmth moves away from you and you can hear an array of mysterious noises: metal wheels rolling, something clicking like a series of snap fasteners being done up, a sound like the one that your box of random chargers makes when you try to pull something out of the tangle… “Gonna put some doodads on you.”

Cool gel circles touch your skin—oh, they’re electrodes. She puts a few on your chest; not anywhere fun, just over your heart and other relevant places for biological data. Then there’s a series that goes up your thighs and right above the top of your underwear. “Gotta complete the circle, so I’m going under.” Even with the warning, you still twitch when she lifts up your underwear and places more electrodes on either side.

“And finally, gonna go in, but not too far. Brace yerself!” You squeeze your eyes together, hard, to keep from biting your lip as Holtzmann pulls the crotch of your underwear aside and delicately places electrodes just inside your outer labia, three on each side. She lets the cloth cover you again and pats the top of your underwear the same way you absently pat your clean laundry after it’s folded. You try not to giggle.

“Time to go fire this puppy up. It’ll take a little bit—I decided to take some things out and put some things in while you were on your way. It’ll probably all play nice together. You need anything, just put your lips together and blow.” Pause. “You know, like a whistle. Whistle. Or just…just say something. I can hear you.” Holtzmann’s voice gets fainter as she moves away from you.

“Okay,” you say, trying to sound normal. Whatever “normal” sounds like in this situation.

You hear the door to the control room close, and then everything’s quiet. You can hear a faint humming, and the occasional beep from something downstairs. The darkness feels warm at first, and then time begins to stretch out. Your mind wanders. This is totally just science, right? (Of course!) Is the completely unbidden pulsing in your clitoris going to show up on her sensors? (Probably.) Will she warn you before she turns things on? (Hopefully?) What’s going to happen when she does turn things on? (Who knows!) Why did it wind up being _you_ as the guinea pig? “Holtzmann, don’t you have a girlf—I mean, why do you need me?” Oh crap! You said that out loud. Rude! ”Sorry! I was just, um, thinking. About stuff.”

You hear a faint electronic whine and then Holtzmann’s voice, close to you. There must be a speaker in the bed. “I’m the world’s best co-worker—it says so on my mug, see? I got it for 25 cents at the same place I got an 1801 circular slide rule! Score. The Ghostbusters, they get me. Buuuut I wouldn’t inflict myself on anyone else. Anyway, I hear girlfriends need care and feeding. There’s a reason I have a cat, not a dog!” You can hear the cocky grin in her voice, but your heart breaks a little anyway.

You’re still trying to muster a reply when you hear a set of beeps through the speaker.

“Okay then,” she says. “Stage One: Ignite!”

You lie there for a moment, wondering what “it” is going to be. Then you feel something fluttering around the edges of your labia, slowly spreading down into your vagina. There is an uncanny feeling to it, just as though something is touching you from the inside without actually being inside. It’s gentle and pleasant. The tension in your shoulders and hips relaxes a little. The sensation intensifies and continues to circle in a pulse inside you. You can feel yourself responding to it. If you touched yourself there right now (and honestly, you would like to) you’d already be a little wet.

“I’m gonna assume that’s okay,” Holtzmann says, and you twitch. “Turning off the speakers now! Stage Three: Engage!”

What happened to Stage Tw—oohhhh, that’s new. You feel a rhythm spreading from the nub of your clitoris, joining the rest of the pulsating sensation Holtzmann has somehow induced. You press your thighs together tightly. “That’s…good…”

You're feeling sweeps of pleasure all around the exterior and interior of your entire vagina, an encompassing feeling that is completely new to you. The only thing that would make it better would be if it weren't so disembodied. If fingers were involved. If... You let the thought go.

The stimulation continues, changing in direction and intensity but still just as good as when it started. It's a warm, smoldering feeling—enough pleasure on its own that a climax seems irrelevant. You could imagine being cuffed to the bed for hours and hours, letting this go on and on and not getting tired of it.

You have no idea how much time has passed. You're wet enough that you can feel it seeping onto your thighs when you twitch to one side or the other.

Then everything changes. There's a spark, then a flare like lightning inside you, tracing a winged shape that the nub of your clitoris is only a tiny part of. What is Holtzmann doing to you? Whatever it is, you'll ride it to the end. Your breath is fast and shallow, and you're curling in on yourself.

“All the way okay?” Holtzmann suddenly asks.

“ _YES_ ,” you choke out, or something close to it. You hear the edge of a self-satisfied chuckle before the speaker is switched off again.

The flare of amazing pleasure doesn't do anything as simple as just get stronger. Of course not. Somehow, it deepens; it become more profound. You've forgotten where you are; your eyes are shut so tight that sparks are flaring behind your eyelids.

And then it happens. A climax that's more than 360 degrees--it's three-dimensional. You are swept up in an whirlpool, an orgasm that is coming from many places at once--places inside you that you didn’t know _could_ orgasm. You've uncurled your body into a taut arc as the climax engulfs you. It goes on and on, and you would notice your limbs trembling if you weren't caught in the floods of the climax. There's a final surge, and then it recedes at last. You just lay there, with no desire to move. Every nerve in your pelvis seems to be happilytingling with echoes of … of whatever just happened.

"Ready to let the light in?" It's not the speaker this time—you feel Holtzmann's breath touching your ear. You didn't even hear her come out.

You can't say anything yet, but you nod and shakily try to sit up. Holtzmann unfastens the goggles and you squint. She's turned the lights down a bit, but the real world in general is a shock to you right now. "Lemme get these off." Holtzmann deftly removes the electrodes. "On a scale of one to ten—“

You interrupt her before she gets to the N in ten. "Eleven! Twenty? Eleventy!"

"Yesssssss." Holtzmann licks her finger (causing you to twitch again, though you hope she doesn't notice) and draws an invisible 1 in the air. "A goal for the home team!"

She helps you off the table and hands you a glass of water. You hope you don't break it. Your legs are unsteady, for more than one reason. "I'm gonna have more detailed questions for you," she says. "But you're probably going to want a shower and a moment to yourself first."

You nod. Yes. Shower good.

You manage not to fall over and knock yourself out in the shower (which you’re unsurprised to notice is a repurposed, or maybe multipurpose, chemical safety shower). But when you come out to get dressed, you note a problem.

"Ummmm. Holtzmann?"

You hear some equipment rattle and then she’s right outside the door. “Yes? Please tell me nothing’s broken.”

You can’t tell if she’s kidding. “No, I’m fine. But uh…my underwear.” Ridiculously, you are blushing. “It’s…too damp to put back on.” Way, way too damp, in fact.

“Ohhh.” You hear the scratch of a pen on paper. Is she writing that down? “Hang on.” You can hear her running down the stairs, and shortly afterwards, back up. She taps on the door and you open it a crack. She hands you a plastic bag and a pair of Pac-Man boxers. Aha! Just as you thought—you’ve won your bet with yourself.

“Thank you.”

You get dressed and attempt to fix your hair. When you exit the shower, Holtzmann yells “Down here!”

You join Holtzmann at her little folding table. She’s sitting on an overturned crate and has reserved the lone folding chair for you. Your apple tarts, piping hot, are on a plate. “How…I don’t see a microwave—“ you wonder aloud.

“I don’t have a ‘microwave’ microwave,” she says, making air quotes. “But I _do_ have a high-energy radio frequency gun!” You choke slightly and Holtzmann asks if you’d like some tea. You accept, and as you’re both eating, Holtzmann asks you questions about how the equipment test went. She jots down your answers with intense concentration, unaware that she has a couple of crumbs on her face. You would like to reach over and brush them away, but you manage not to.

“I actually have a question,” you say.

“Yes, you in the front row, go ahead.”

You play along, holding an invisible microphone toward her. “Dr. Holtzmann, could you explain for our viewers just _what_ that was? Anatomically speaking, I mean.”

“Ah!” Holtzmann jumps to her feet. She stabs a dot into the air with her thumb. “That’s what most people think of as the clitoris, right? But no, that’s the tip of the iceberg!” She uses both hands to sketch a larger, orchid-like shape that flows out from the dot. “Most of it’s internal—it actually surrounds the vagina! Somehow we didn’t know this until 2009. 2009! Because who cares about women’s anatomy, right?” She makes a truly grotesque face. “So give a tip of the hat to Buisson and Foldés, because without their—cough, unfunded—research, we wouldn’t know.”

“Wow. I had no idea,” you say. You think back over the experience and have to stop yourself before you become aroused again. “Oh, hey, sorry I asked about a girlfriend. That was rude, and too personal, and I shouldn’t have assumed it could only be a girlfriend, anyway.”

“Nah, your instincts are good. Anyway, even if I had a girlfriend, she wouldn’t be a good subject for this. Too biased, hard to get honest feedback.”

“Right,” you say. You need to work harder to be more objective. You _really_ don’t want her to have to replace you. “But then, wait, what’s the potential application of your research?”

“Eh, mostly just proof of concept. Seeing if things will work.”

“So far, so good.”

“Second question,” you say. “That was _simple_?!”

“Oh yes.” Holtzmann’s grin looks positively evil. The gleam in her eyes tells you that she isn’t going to say even one word more.

You’re at a loss for words. Then you notice the time. “I have to go,” you say. You want to add “Thank you,” but it would be too weird.

Holtzmann walks you to the door. “Next time, you’ll see,” she says, and wiggles her eyebrows at you.

“G’—g’night!” You wave and head out.

The ride back is quiet; time you’d usually use to mentally review your research projects and think about what’s next. But not tonight. For every. single. second. of the trip, you’re aware of only one thing: pressed between your slacks and your skin, the feel of Holtzmann’s boxers.

It’s a long, long way home that night.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still learning to write sex scenes. It's not easy! How do I know that what I think is sexy will be sexy to anyone else? Aaaaagh. Anyway, I hope it was fun. There's definitely more to come--more elaborate scenes, more interaction with Holtzmann, and perhaps some changes in the arrangement. Eventually.
> 
> \- ERRATA - 
> 
> The technobabble in these is meant to be at least somewhat meaningful, but given that Ghostbusters is essentially pulp and takes place in a world with ghosts, I’m not worrying about it too much.
> 
> “Your” fantasy of enjoying the device for hours and hours while in restraints is ONLY a fantasy. In real life, that’d be both impractical and extremely dangerous.
> 
> Holtzmann’s text (“The way into my parlour is up a winding stair”) is from [“The Spider and the Fly: A Fable”](https://www.ocf.berkeley.edu/~aathavan/poems/The%20Spider%20and%20The%20Fly%20A%20Fable.htm) by Mary Howitt, 1829. 
> 
> Here's some information about the (still debated) [structure of the internal clitoris.](http://www.museumofsex.com/the-internal-clitoris/) The original paper: Pierre Foldés MD and Odile Buisson MD, ["The Clitoral Complex: A Dynamic Sonographic Study"](http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.1743-6109.2009.01231.x/full) (most university libraries will provide online access to this paper)


End file.
